paramount passion in her bosom, any more than in the bosoms of men. Yet just as there are traces of it in the human heart, and occasional instances so fine that our admiration proves their rarity; so there are traces of it in all cathood, and now and then some charming and indubitable proof of its potency. Pussy does not, indeed, assume herself our servitor, because, to gratify our own refined tastes, we give her food and lodging. That is not her way of reading her motto, Libertas sine Labore; but in her own fashion she acknowledges the claims of friendship, and feels that kindness merits recognition. Why else should she so constantly offer to share her spoils with unappreciative mortals, who have not even tact enough to pretend the satisfaction they do not feel? M. Brasseur Wirtgen, a close and accurate observer, tells us that the two things which marred the calm contentment of his cat were his own studious habits, and his unfortunate distaste for slain vermin. If he read long, she would jump on his knee, and thrust her little head between the pages of his book, as though seeking the cause of his absorption; and her solicitude for his welfare prompted her to drag huge rats, still in their death-throes, to his feet. "She behaved as though I had been her son, and painfully endeavoured to provide me with a prey commensurate to my size. Large game was unfit for her kittens;
